


Sing Sweet, Little Bird

by startwithsparks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly brutal beating at the hands of King Joffrey, Sansa takes solace in the Hound's presence, and takes control of only thing she can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Sweet, Little Bird

The first time Joffrey called on her in the middle of the night, Sansa felt like the world was about to fall out from under her. Even with two of her ladies flanking her, their quiet reassurances whispered in her ears, she still felt the floor tipping beneath her feet, and every passing torch seemed to burn into her skin. She'd been woken out of a fitful sleep, the image of her father's face haunting her dreams as much now as it had that day at the sept. Her ladies rushed from her bed and into her clothes, with no time to twist her hair up into its intricate designs or hide the dark circles of sleeplessness that had formed under her eyes.

She clung to her ladies, begged them to make up some excuse for her, her exhaustion crumbling all outward attempts to seem like she still wanted this. Not even the sight of the Hound standing, an ever-present sentinel, outside Joffrey's door could calm her fears. He simply stared at her, his dark eyes unreadable, and pushed open the door to let her in.

Her ladies couldn't come with her, they rushed back to her room and away from the scarred monument in the hall as fast as they thought was decent, leaving Sansa on her own in a room with the king.

She didn't think of him as hers anymore, and she hadn't since the moment she thought about shoving him off the bridge at the Keep. He was simply the king, and as it had already been explained to her, the king got what he wanted. Sansa tried being strong, but her heart was beating so fast in her chest that she thought it might burst, and Joffrey's cold stare made her cheeks burn and her stomach twist into knots. She loved him, she tried to tell herself, she loved him and she would be his queen one day and this was what she wanted more than anything else in the world. She'd given up everything to be his queen and maybe, she prayed, he would offer her the same soft words here as he had the last time they were alone.

But he didn't.

He stalked forward like a hungry predator, staring her down until she felt impossibly small in his gaze, and reached out to grasp her hair in his fist. He pulled her forward and tossed her down on the floor at the foot of his bed, barely giving her enough time to compose herself before he was on top of her. His hand closed around her throat and Sansa saw glimmers of the riot behind her eyes. As Joffrey ripped the front of her robe open, snapping the ties from around her waist and pushing it aside, she couldn't help but remember the filthy men who pulled her to the ground and tore at her clothes and body that afternoon.

Before she could stop it, a sob escaped her lips, and Joffrey's hand fell hard on her cheek, hard enough that Sansa lost focus for a moment. She tried to push him off, but her strength was lost to her fear and all she managed was a weak shove at his shoulders. That seemed to only infuriate him more and he grabbed her hair again to turn her on her stomach and press her face against the floor.

Sansa counted it as a small blessing, hardly any kind of blessing at all, that the only thing Joffrey seemed interested in was beating her. Bruises would heal, and while his fists fell with conviction, they lacked too much strength. She wanted to spit at him, to tell him that this was why he had to order other people to beat her for him, but the words wouldn't make it past her lips.

Little at a time, King Joffrey whittled away at Sansa's unwavering love for Prince Joffrey, the boy she thought she knew. It wasn't just her father's execution or his lack of honor or mercy, but the cruelness that ran through him and went deep into his bones. She was more ashamed that she had ever believed his lies than anything else, and yet she still couldn't speak a single harsh word against him. She could cry, though – and she'd done so much of that lately that she was surprised she still had tears left – and as his assault rained down on her body, she knew she had no other defense.

It seemed to amuse him for a time, causing him to hit her in a way that made her cry out louder, trying to see if she would beg him to stop. Sansa couldn't utter a word past her sobs, but soon the sound silenced everything else around her, even the pain she felt as Joffrey hit her. It wasn't until a moment after he pulled her to her feet by her hair that she realized that was because he'd stopped.

"Get out," he sneered, hurling her towards the door. Past the blur of her tears, she could see the obstruction plainly on her face. She hadn't given him what he wanted, she hadn't begged him or bowed to him or submitted, whatever it was he called her in there for, and he'd abandoned his beating in frustration. "You're probably already ruined," he continued, a last vain effort to hurt her. "You're pathetic, I could buy a better whore than you."

Sansa tried to muffle her weeping with a hand over her mouth, but it was almost impossible to hide the trembling of her shoulders or the tears that streaked down her face. Joffrey's words cut no deeper than his fists, the pain was all superficial, and she knew when the wounds healed his words would slip into the same place where she hid the horrible things people said about her father as well. She was wise enough to know he was an angry little monster, and a liar, but she still backed quickly towards the door.

"Out!" Joffrey hissed, reaching for the door and shoving Sansa into the hallway.

She stumbled and fell back on her hands, the stone scraping her palms. She quickly tugged her robe back around her body, pushing her hair from her face, and curled her knees to her chest right there on the floor.

The Hound still hovered above her, one hand on the hilt of his sword at his hip. He waited until her tears stopped running and her chest stopped heaving to reach out a hand to her. Wiping her face on her sleeve, Sansa placed her hand in his and let him pull her back to her feet, catching her foot in the end of her robe and stumbling forward against him. With a gentle hand, he wiped the last few tears from her cheek and tugged her robe tight across her chest. He said nothing as he turned her, a hand at her shoulders, and led her back down the hall again.

On the way back to her room, Sansa kept telling herself that it could have been worse. He'd only hit her, and even then he hadn't hit her as hard as some of the Kingsguard had. She could take a little from the fact that he got no satisfaction from her in the end, but deep down she knew that it would only add to his rage. He was nearly thwarted by her father, and Robb cut his armies off at every turn, now not even Sansa could give him what he wanted.

Before they reached the corridor to her room, the Hound tightened his grip on her shouldered and steered her in the opposite direction.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice still wet and uneven.

He didn't so much as look at her, "Hush, little bird."

Sansa frowned and clung to her clothes, wrapping her arms around her waist. The light got dimmer as they walked, until the torches spaced so far apart that they cast heavy shadows in the spaces between. He promised once that wouldn't hurt her and since then he'd kept that promise even in the face of the king, so she had no fear that he might be leading her towards some kind of danger now. Instead, when he opened a door at the very end of the hall, she let him usher her quickly inside.

The first thing Sansa noticed about the room was its two windows facing east and north-east and pale cast of light that illuminated the room. The panes of glass in the windows were mostly clear, patterned with curved steel that reflected the light and made it shine brighter inside, so bright that it made a fire unnecessary. Sansa glanced up at the Hound's face, at the matted, scarred side of his face, and realized that this room belonged to him.

As he shed his sword and cloak and started pulling off his leather armor, Sansa glanced around the room. It was unkempt, but not as bad as she expected – it wasn't even as bad as the rooms Theon kept back in Winterfell. A large bed – though it was probably much smaller with him in it – sat shoved against one wall, while a table and a single chair sat near the north-east window. The only other thing in the room that she immediately noticed was a rack with at least a dozen swords and twice as many long, thick daggers hung on it. She stepped up to one of them, Valyrian steel with a twisted dragon hilt, and canted her head gently at it.

"Sit," he rasped, and Sansa startled.

She turned and nodded, moving across the small room to the chair and tucking herself down into it. She watched him go to a trunk in the corner of the room and pull out a buckskin flagon and a piece of linen, stalking back across the room towards her with both in hand. Sansa recoiled slightly when he knelt in front of her, but then he soaked the cloth in muddy red liquid from the skin and reached out to clean her lip and the curve of her cheek.

"Why are you doing this?" Sansa asked, wetting her lips and tasting what she recognized vaguely as thousand-leaf, honey, and wine. Her mother had used something similar when Sansa got thrown from a horse years ago. Her gaze softened, even before he answered, and she shifted forward so he didn't have to reach so far.

"Didn't he say he could buy a whore?" he asked, voice impassive.

Sansa frowned, but let him push her hair out of the way to swipe the cloth across a scrape on her temple. "He's the king, I'm sure he can buy whatever he wants."

He lowered his head and hid a faint smile. "He isn't done with you, little bird, but while he sits in his impotence, he won't be concerned for what he's missing. Either of us."

The Hound rose to his feet, tucking the skin and cloth away again, and then went to the bed. He leaned against the headboard, one leg outstretched in front of him and the other bent, foot resting on the floor. He dwarfed even these lofty beds, making them look like children's toys.

"Compose yourself," he said, "and I'll take you back to your room."

For a long while, Sansa just sat there watching him. He folded his arms across his broad stomach and closed his eyes, but she could tell he was still completely aware of every movement she made. Sansa didn't let that stop her from standing and walking to one of the large windows, trying to catch her own reflection in the strips of metal, but none of them were big enough to get even a glance of her face, and she realized was probably intentional. But if she stepped back far enough, she could see her torn, ruined, clothes, and futilely tried to piece them together around her again.

"Who gave you this room?" she asked.

He didn't open his eyes when he answered her, and Sansa wondered if he was trying to give her privacy. "King Robert, before King Joffrey was born."

"Did he have the windows made as well?"

The Hound hummed, "The queen was angry with him for a week."

A lot of things could be said about Robert, Sansa knew, but he was a good man and he was good to those who served him.

Sansa pushed her hair out of her face and tried to fix it back into the piece of ivory that held it back, only to find the pin in fractured pieces tangled in her curls. She sighed and combed the piece out of her hair with her fingers, piling them on the table next to her. Giving up on trying to make herself look decent again, she started back towards the chair.

"Will you be here every time he does this?" he asked, glancing at the Hound over her shoulder.

He nodded.

"But you'll still let him do it?"

He finally opened his eyes and looked back at her. "He's the king," the Hound replied simply. "Any man who stands between the king and what he wants can expect to have his head on display at the Keep by the next morning. As ugly as it is, I'm very attached to my head and I'd like to keep on my shoulders where it belongs."

Despite herself, that managed to bring a small smile to Sansa's face. "It's not that ugly," she offered. "If you look at the correct side."

He returned her smile, half a twitch of the good side of his mouth, unfolding his arms and dropping his other leg off the side of the bed. "Come here, little bird," he pat the bed next to him.

Sansa hesitated, but after a moment she came forward and slid up on the edge of the bed next to him. She wasn't afraid of him anymore, though he terrified her at first, and she found that his words stuck with her almost as much as her own father's words did. The thoughts and feelings she'd started to have for him were not those of a daughter for her father at all, and she was almost relieved to know she could tell the difference. After what Joffrey had done to her, she felt torn between whether she wanted closer to him at all, though, or whether she wanted to find a hole somewhere she could hide herself in. Wherever her sister disappeared to, Sansa thought, she was the lucky one.

But Joffrey's beatings were no more violent, they were no more foul, than those at the hands of his so-called knights, and after that she'd wanted nothing more than to find someone who would hold her. The only difference was that Joffrey's anger sparked images in her mind she'd do better to forget. The Hound and his unfortunate face only made her think of the moment he swept her up off the ground and carried her to safety. Each time he did that, the memory became clearer in her mind and slowly started to edge out everything else. It would never make the terrors disappear completely, she knew that, but maybe one day it would push them so far to the edge that they no longer forced their way into focus.

He reached out and brushed her hair off her shoulders, his fingers finding the torn edge of her robe and easing it down off her shoulder. Sansa shivered, only because of the brush of his hand against her neck, but the Hound pulled away and leaned back against the head of his bed again.

"He didn't touch me," Sansa said, shrugging. "He did no worse than he's ordered in front of the entire court. I think he meant to, but he couldn't."

She wasn't sure why she was telling him this, but maybe part of her felt disappointed he'd pulled away. It wasn't necessarily that she wanted the Hound, but he treated her gently and seemed to honestly care for her – as much as that baffled her. It was his kindness that she responded to, that drew her closer to him, that had her pushing her tattered robe off her shoulders and letting her pool behind her. She tugged her gown up around her knees and scoot towards him, resting her cheek against his shoulder and fitting her body against his chest.

He seemed startled by the closeness, but he wrapped his arms around her narrow waist and pulled her gently into his lap. She huddled closer as he brought a hand up to her hair, curling his fingers in the rust-colored strands.

"Would you take me if I asked you to?" Sansa asked softly against his shoulder.

The Hound grunted, his hand tightening in her hair. "Yes."

"And if I didn't ask you to?"

A long silence stretched between them, but it wasn't because he was trying to find his words. Instead he seemed like he was trying to figure out _why_ Sansa was asking him this. "No," he finally said. "Not you, little bird."

"But you _have_?"

He nodded into her hair, inhaling softly.

Sansa tilted her head to look up at him, thankfully nuzzled against the unscarred side of his face. She still wasn't sure that she wanted it, but the one thing she knew was that she didn't want to remember her first experience at the hands of Joffrey or one of his men, she wanted to know that whoever she gave it to would be gentle with her while they did it. The more brutal Joffrey got, the more she realized that she didn't want that memory piled on top of everything else, every time any other man got close to her. If she had control of only one thing in her whole life, she had control over this.

"Would you do it now?"

The Hound swallowed and tilted his gaze towards her. "If that's what you want."

Sansa leaned up and pressed her lips softly to the coarse hair on his jaw, the tip of her nose brushing against his cheek before she pulled away. "I'd rather it be you," she said. "And _you_ know I'm ready."

He needed no more encouragement than that, and her reasoning was sound enough for him to trust she wouldn't have regrets later. He hoped to see the king thrust from his throne before the end of the war regardless, and whatever conflict this might cause in the future he could easily see himself around.

Reaching out, he cupped her jaw in both large hands, sliding his fingers back into her hair and gently gathering it behind her shoulders. Holding it with one hand, he reached around and loosened the ties on the front of her gown – large, loose ribbons down the front of the thin linen shift. Sansa's hands were still braced against his chest, as she watched him slowly untie each ribbon, tugging the ends of the bows and watching as the fabric fell apart, five in all from her neck to her knees. Even with the fabric loosened, it still barely revealed her skin.

He slid out from underneath her, gathering her in his arms again, and laid her back across his bed, one knee on the outside of her leg and the other foot still planted firmly on the floor. He hovered above her enough that she had ample room to move under him, but she stayed still, clutching the fabric of her gown around her at the hips. For the moment, he seemed uninterested in that, and instead reached for one of her hands to draw it up towards his face. That was what made Sansa tense, and she pulled her hand back somewhat, afraid to touch him.

"If I'm going to kiss you, you're going to touch my face..." he murmured.

Sansa wasn't sure if that was a good bargain, but she slowly let him draw her hand forward. Sansa's fingertips brushed over his cheekbone and, at first, she recoiled abruptly again. But it didn't feel at all like she expected. Truthfully, she had no idea what she actually expected it to feel like. She inched her hand closer and brushed her fingers against the smooth, uneven skin, finding it almost waxy in some places but thick and dry in others. Her hand trailed down his cheek to his jaw, her thumb sliding over the edge of his lower lip barely touched by the scar itself.

"See," he rasped, "I don't bite."

"I thought it would feel..." she pulled her hand back and rubbed her fingertips together thoughtfully, "wetter."

He smirked but shook his head, drawing her hand up to his cheek again as he leaned down and pressed his lips to her. His kiss wasn't entirely gentle, but the roughness came from the touch of his skin and his ragged beard, not from the press of his mouth against hers at all. It wasn't like any of the other kisses she'd had either, instead she felt like he was trying to draw her into him – or that she was trying to allow herself the same. One of his hands slipped behind her neck to hold her in place, while the other slipped down the front of her throat and between her collarbones, flicking the fabric of her gown aside. Sansa shrugged her shoulders and the fabric pooled beneath her enough that she could draw her arms out of the sleeves.

Her arms moved to wrap around his shoulders, but the Hound had already drawn away from her mouth, his rough lips casting across her neck and the curve of her collar instead. Sansa let her head fall back as his hand drew out from under her neck, straining to watch him as he made his way down. He wasn't exactly careless in his touches, but he was quick in them, like he wasn't sure if she really wanted him to touch her or not. He didn't linger, he didn't spend too much time in one place, but that only made her anticipation pull tight.

His calloused hands settled on her waist and he rest his good cheek against her stomach for a moment, nuzzling the soft flesh there. For Sansa, it was strange to have anyone show this much affection towards her after all she'd been though, and to have it at the hands of a brute like the Hound came as more of a surprise. She watched as he dropped down on his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands sliding down her hips and slowly drawing apart the last few inches of fabric covering her. Sansa blushed hot, fingers curling in her gown as he tugged her forward to the edge of the bed and draped her legs over his broad shoulders. She trembled slightly, eyes wide, though her hesitance stuttered to a halt when his mouth came in contact with her body again.

She clamped her hand over her mouth to muffle the moan that answered him, dropping back onto his bed. Her legs tensed around his shoulders, squirming under him, but the more she squirmed, the tighter he held her and the more intense it seemed to feel. It didn't take long before she abandoned her efforts at silencing her moans to twist her other hand in the fabric beneath her instead. He was as relentless here as he was passive elsewhere, and each shudder of breath and stifled, desperate cry seemed to spur him on further.

Beyond her own noises, she heard the rustle of fabric, a clatter of metal, and realized vaguely that he was only holding her down with one hand now. Sansa drew her knees up slightly, her feet brushing against his bare back and another tingle running down her spine where it seemed to flood straight into his warm mouth. She heard him groan against her and press closer, which only drew another excited shudder out of her.

Just as the tension started to get too much for her, he pulled back and slipped her legs down off his shoulders, his lips scuffing against the smooth skin of her inner thighs. He stood, bracing himself on the bed long enough to pull his boots off and kick his trousers to the floor, and then drew up in front of her. She wondered if he was trying to shock her, but she was too distracted from his all his previous attention to notice anything except for the way his broad shoulders led down to a muscular chest, then a cut, trim waist, all of it littered with scars – some gnarled, some slashing. Her cheeks went warm again before her eyes trailed any lower and Sansa gathered herself together on the bed, propping up with her hands behind her and her knees drawn together.

"Oh..." she breathed, and his mouth twisted into a smirk.

"Not what you expected?"

Sansa shook her head, "No," she said, shoulders shrugging up, not even thinking to cover herself now that he was bare in front of her as well. "You're not ugly at all."

The Hound chuckled, the sound thick and dark, and scooped down to gather her in his arms again. He picked her up and Sansa's legs instinctively slipped around his waist, knees clenching in against his sides. He sat back on the bed, pushing her robe and gown away, and settled himself against the head of the bed again with her in his lap. She could feel him pressing against her and Sansa's heart leaped into her throat when she realized just how close they were.

But he drew her against his chest with one strong arm, tipping his head so she could rest her cheek against his good side while he pressed his lips to the gentle curve of her neck. His other hand slid between them, and for a moment Sansa's stomach twist into a tight knot, not sure if she was ready yet. But it was his hand that slid between her legs, his palm rubbing up against her. Sansa whimpered faintly into his hair, tightening her arms around his shoulders. She pressed down against his hand, rocking her hips slightly.

"Good girl," he breathed, "there's no need to hold back with me."

She nodded, her grip on him tightening when she felt him curl a finger and slowly slip it inside her. Sansa bit down on her lower lip, bracing herself for it to hurt, but all she felt was a brief pressure that gave way with only the faintest sting. She wondered if the thousand-leaf had gotten into her blood and calmed her body, or if the horrible stories the women told her were only meant to scare her out of doing this.

"Are you alright, little bird?" he breathed, and she nodded, her hands sliding back down to his shoulders.

Sansa straightened up, meeting his gaze, as he continued to touch her and she continued to move against his hand. Her breathing was heavy, but she found that it was only when she stopped and tensed that she became aware of the slightest hint of pain. The Hound twist his hand slightly, his thumb sliding up to rub against her, rougher and more direct than his mouth had been. It still made a rush of need twist downward, but it felt sharper than before. Feeling dizzy and overwhelmed, she curled forward to rest her cheek against his shoulder; she wasn't sure she could really look at him while they did this, the feel of his gaze on her making her skin burn too-warm. A second finger pressed in next to the first and Sansa whined, the Hound's free hand coming up to tangle in her hair and hold her tight against him.

"Breathe," he whispered, "and try not to think about it."

Sansa tried doing as he told her, forcing herself to not hold her breath like her body seemed to want. Instead, breathy whimpers slipped from her lips as he pressed into her, his thumb still rubbing in narrow circles. It didn't hurt, but at the same time she didn't have the words to explain what it did feel like, she just knew that it was getting harder to even remember _how_ to breathe, much less to keep her breathing even and level.

Then just as abruptly as he pulled away from her the first time, he pulled away again, his hand sliding lower between them. She felt him nudge up against her and his hand moved down from her hair to the curve of her lower back. He drew her hips forward, her back arching, and she felt him start to push inside her. The brief pause he gave, she knew, was to give her time to reconsider, but Sansa hadn't just asked for this on a whim, and her body was buzzing with all the attention he'd already showed her. The moment passed, and he leaned back, settling his hands on her hips, and looked at her expectantly. Sansa braced her hands on his chest, slowly lowering herself on him. He didn't rush her, he just watched, his hands gripping firmly enough to guide but not direct. Sansa realized as she settled herself that he had passed over control to her, giving her the power to choose how fast the rest of this went between them. She didn't expect it from him, but he seemed intent to keep his word, and for a man who wasn't a knight at all he seemed leagues more honorable than any of them.

Slowly, he started guiding her hips with the faintest pressure of his hands on her, sliding her forward as he pressed up into her. Sansa wasn't entirely confident about moving on her own yet, but his hands abandoned her hips and started to move up her sides instead, leaving her moving on her own. It didn't take long before she started to discover what felt best, and already deciding there was no way she could accommodate all of him. He didn't seem to mind though, between the faint growls that rumbled from his chest and the way his hands made their way further up along her body.

He tugged her forward again, enough that he could lean in and press his lips to the curve of her breast, working his way across the swell of flesh to sensitive skin. Another breathy moan escaped her as his lips closed around her. That thrill his mouth caused combined with the pressure between her legs was heady, as dizzying as anything, but it wasn't until his teeth gently scored against her breast that she felt the same surge of longing roll through her body as before.

She slid her hands to the back of his neck, not sure whether to pull him closer or push him away, but she felt like her entire body was straining up towards his mouth and down against him at the same time. It hurt, yes, but not in a way that made Sansa want to stop. The more she moved, the less she noticed the twinge of pain anyhow. He didn't urge her to go faster or to take more than she could, and in that concession, she found a sort of confidence she didn't even know she had.

The Hound's beard scratched against her skin as he moved from one breast to the other, paying the same attention there as he did before. At the same time, his hand slid between them again and Sansa felt his fingertips press against her. She bit back a hard moan, her grip on him tightening while her hips shuddered forward towards his hand. But he didn't relent here either, his mouth on her and his fingers drawing these rolling, warm shudders through her body. She felt a moan catch in her throat, and reached down to push his hand away as she trembled around him, the combined attention suddenly crashing over her, overwhelming her, leaving her struggling to catch her breath again. He gripped her hips tightly then, pushing harder into her while she was still reeling from everything else. Sansa heard him growl, brutal and undone, against her ear a moment later, and steadily he drew to a stop.

He rest his forehead against her shoulder, and Sansa could feel his chest heaving with ragged breaths that matched her own. With an exhausted groan, she slumped forward against him as well, her heart racing and her body feeling numb in the most blissful way possible.

"I bet Joffrey can't do that," Sansa breathed against his ear, grinning when the Hound started to laugh outright against her shoulder.

She'd never heard a sound like that, so heavy and happy, but she decided she liked it almost as much as she liked the way his lips and fingers drew all those tingles from her skin. She needed someone's laughter – their happiness – and his seemed more genuine, and more strangely beautiful, than anyone else.

He shift under her again, lowering her down on her back next to him and drawing slowly out of her. But she came right back to him, fitting herself against his side with her head on his chest and her arm draped across him, instead. He turned his head and buried his face against her hair again, drawing in a breath of her.

"Are you happy, little bird?" he asked, and felt Sansa smile against him.


End file.
